


With Every Leaf A Miracle (Or: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not)

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling childish never stopped Jean Prouvaire--which makes it perfectly normal for the young poet to find himself in a field of wildflowers, allowing their fallen petals to determine his romantic fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Every Leaf A Miracle (Or: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not)

Feeling childish never stopped Jean Prouvaire--which makes it perfectly normal for the young poet to find himself in a field of wildflowers, searching for the best candidate. He picks a handful of poppies, careful not to disturb the look of the landscape.

“He loves me, he loves me not,” he begins, promising himself not to change the results if he didn’t like them--he picks ten poppies, one for each letter in C-O-U-R-F-E-Y-R-A-C.

His heart is a roller-coaster ride, soaring into his throat and dropping into his stomach as each petal falls.

“He loves me, he loves me not.” All the times Courfeyrac had flirted with him as maybe more than just a joke.

“He loves me, he loves me not.” The night they’d spent stargazing on the roof of Jehan’s building when Courf had gotten locked out of his and Marius’s apartment while Pontmercy was at Cosette’s, leaving him no way in.

“He loves me, he loves me not.” The first time Courfeyrac had properly written something, asking Prouvaire’s opinion before anyone else’s.

“He loves me,”--heart soaring--”he loves me not.”--heart falling to the pit of his stomach.

“He loves me, he loves me not.” Courfeyrac exhausted after exams, resting his head on Jehan’s shoulder at the Musain, arms holding the shorter man loosely.

“He loves me, he loves me not.” Playing with those inky black curls, too short for braiding but long enough to tuck in a moonflower, standing out against his hair in a way that made any other muses irrelevant--Jehan could write a thousand poems about those contrasting hues.

“He loves me, he loves me not.” The thousand “is everything okay?” texts he’d gotten but not been able to answer resulting in Courfeyrac’s sheepish knocking at his front door, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers, a book of Neruda, and a copy of Amélie which was, thankfully, less worn than Jehan’s.

“He loves me, he--” no more petals. “He loves me.” Courfeyrac sprinting to Jehan, hugging him so tightly he’s lifted off the ground.

“How did you..?” Jehan trails off.

“When will you learn, Jehan, that when you’re not at anyone’s house, or at the cafe, you're picking flowers in this field?”

Prouvaire blushes. “You didn't hear what I was saying, did you...?"

Courfeyrac just shakes his head, closing the short distance between their lips.   
 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloom'd, by Walt Whitman.
> 
> \--
> 
> For Meera


End file.
